Page 16 of Storm of Shadows
“What?” I say, distracted as I watch the teachers. Apart from Madame Bardin, who is slim, elegant and wearing heeled boots despite the rough ground, the other two teachers are the size of small houses, stacked with muscle that seem determined to break free from their clothing. They are also identical in every way, from their shorn heads and beady brown eyes, to their solid shoulders and square jaws – jaws that could crack even the hardest of nuts.
“What?!” Fly scoffs in disbelief. “You just got picked as their thrall.”
If I hoped to ask my new friend what the hell a thrall is or whotheyare, I’m not given the chance, because one of the bulldozer twins blows violently on a whistle clutched in his over-sized hand.
“Silence,” his brother roars, “and stand the fuck to attention. This isn’t some holiday camp, you suckers, this is Firestone Academy and there will be no talking, slouching or ill-discipline on our watch. Now keep your mouths shut and take your seats in the Hall.”
Madame Bardin steps forward, wobbling slightly in her heels and drawing her black cape around her body. She walks towards the entrance of the Great Hall and the line of students snakes behind her inside – no one daring to utter a word under the beady gaze of the two male bulldozers.
Inside is even more magnificent than the outside. High stone-vaulted ceilings taller than trees, magnificently carved pillars, marble tiles on the floor and grand chandeliers hanging far above our heads.
“Wow,” I mumble.
“They say the academy was built on the site of the first discovered firestones and that this Hall was built by the early shadow weavers back when the realm was created,” Fly says, head tipped right back as he stares up at the colorful stained-glass window dominating the far wall of the Hall. “Built with magic.”
His words make me shiver because it does seem far too beautiful to have been built by the hands of men.
It seems like it should belong inside a castle, not a school. Except instead of elegant thrones or great banqueting tables, rows of benches have been placed along its width facing a raised stage at the far end, the huge circular window framed behind, the colored panes forming an image of the Firestone crest – the academy motto written in the old language beneath:Through trials to truth.
On the center of the platform stands Madame Bardin. She waits until the line of students has shuffled along the rows of benches and then she speaks.
“Welcome all of you to the Firestone Academy. We have already begun to test you and this testing will not end until you complete your twelve months at the academy. Your time here will determine your futures. Be mindful, we will be watching you.” She glares at us as if to emphasize her point. “Even when you think you aren’t being assessed, you are.” She pauses, allowing that information to sink in. “However, as you will all be aware, what counts most at this academy is your performance at the trials we set you.” I can’t help but swallow. The academy trials are notorious. That one last night was mild compared to others I’ve heard about. Heck, I’ve seen what those trials can do to you. Every year, one or two return to Slate Quarter with their face scarred, their arm maimed, a leg missing. “Ultimately,” Madame says, “it is your performance during the trials which will determine to which Quarter you are sent after your time at this academy ends. The first trial is now complete and points have been awarded accordingly. Remember, points will determine to which Quarter you are assigned and thereby your destiny. The next trial will take place in three weeks’ time.”
This statement causes much murmuring among the students, despite the death stares from the troll-like twins.
“It’s so unfair,” I mutter under my breath to Fly, “us kids from Slate don’t stand a chance.”
“Having said that,” Madame continues, “we know some students have had a head start over others,” I peer towards the front row where for once the shadow weavers are listening intently, “some among you may have untapped potential and skills. Potential and skills that have not been given the correct environment to blossom. The academy also provides the opportunity to learn, to be taught, to hone your skills. Use this opportunity wisely.”
My heart sinks. Learning – that was the bit Amelia was most excited about. She’d whisper to me as we fell asleep at night-timeabout all the things she was going to be taught. She’d promised she’d make it out of Slate Quarter. She promised she’d take me with her.
Once upon a time, I was as optimistic as she was. Once upon a time, I believed in a different future. Now I know better.
“There will be no lessons or assessments today. You have the rest of your time to acquaint yourselves with your surroundings. Classes will begin tomorrow.” A few students rise to their feet, clearly believing that’s it. Madame Bardin glares at them. “If you’d be gracious enough to honor me with just one more moment of your time,” she says with a sinister smile that has all those students dropping back to the benches as quickly as they can. “You all have a copy of the rules of the academy. Short and simple. However, there are a few more things you should be aware of. Those caught skipping classes will be punished. Those late for lessons will be punished. Those who forget the necessary equipment for lessons will be punished. And anyone caught cheating in any way will be severely punished.” She smiles a second time, only this time it’s a lot more genuine. I know her type and I suspect she likes the punishing a lot more than she does the teaching.
“And if you have any problems, any complaints, any difficulties,” she smiles around the Hall, “do not bother me with them. Dismissed!”
Fly leans towards me. “I don’t know about you, Cupcake, but I’m starving. I’m heading straight for the canteen. Unless you have some better idea?”
I laugh. “Can we please find some lunch? I may actually pass out if not and I don’t want a bump on my head to add to the collection of injuries.”
“Sure,” he says, hooking his arm through mine and leading me in the direction of the canteen. It’s in a squat, old-looking building towards the back of the campus. One that obviouslyhasn’t been decorated or cleaned in half a century. Paint peels from the walls and grime is smeared across the windows.
“I warn you now,” Fly says, “I’ve been told that the cuisine here is far from the best the realm has to offer.” He crinkles his nose in obvious disgust. “Jeez, it smells like something died in here.”
I have to disagree. The smells are many and tantalizing – sweet and savory, vegetable and meat, wet and dry – all sloshing together through the air and swimming towards my nose. In front of us, laid out across two tables, is more food than I’ve seen in my lifetime. Sure, it’s basic – sausages, boiled root vegetables, hard looking rolls and some sort of sloppy stew – and has to stretch to feed several hundred of us, but it’s still a feast.
I grab a plate and pile it high.
Fly follows along behind me, complaining that the vegetables are overcooked and the sausages are full of more gristle than actual meat. I don’t care. I am in food heaven. What’s more, someone else made this for me and someone else will be clearing it all away.
I thought the academy was meant to be a place of hardship. It seems like it might be anything but.
“Slow down there, Cupcake,” Fly mutters. “You eat all that, you will definitely make yourself sick.”
“I don’t care,” I say, as we carry our plates over to an empty table. “I’m so hungry, you could serve me pig’s eyes and lizard innards and I’d wolf them down.”
“Well, you could do with eating,” he says, poking at a limp-looking vegetable with his fork.
